


Xav Vorbarra's Grandsons, Forever

by a_shepherd



Series: Xav Vorbarra's Grandsons [2]
Category: Vorkosigan Saga - Lois McMaster Bujold
Genre: Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Relationship(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-25
Updated: 2012-03-25
Packaged: 2017-11-02 13:10:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/369321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_shepherd/pseuds/a_shepherd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A companion piece to One Leg At A Time, but not a prequel or sequel</p>
            </blockquote>





	Xav Vorbarra's Grandsons, Forever

**Author's Note:**

> Set after Escobar, but before Cordelia goes to Barrayar

Captain Padma Xav Vorpatril landed the lightflyer in front of the house at Vorkosigan Surleau. He was still wearing his dress greens, as he had just landed at the military shuttleport a few hours earlier, having been involved in the final stages of the diplomatic mopping-up after the Escobar fiasco. A terse unsigned message had been forwarded to him from headquarters: _Aral’s in one of his funks. Come ASAP._ He didn’t need a signature to know it was from his uncle, the General. Not good. He had placed a call to Alys to let her know where he was going and why. She told him Aral was at the lake house and encouraged him not to delay. She was very fond of Aral too, and without going into detail, sounded more than a little worried. _Not good at all..._

The sun was high in the sky, the humidity and heat of the day already stifling. He trudged around the side of the house, only to find his uncle pacing back and forth on the flagstone terrace behind it, looking irritated, but then, the General nearly always looked irritated to him. The old man, still reasonably fit for for near eighty, was dressed for serious gardening - worn muddy coveralls, muddy boots, muddy gloves tucked into a back pocket, a wide-brimmed straw hat strewn on a nearby chair. _Damn!_ He had hoped to avoid having to talk to him. Bowing, he greeted the Count, “Milord Uncle. I just got in this morning. I came as soon as I could after receiving your message.”

The old man acknowledged him with a gruff grunt and a pugnacious tone. “Your cousin’s gone off the deep end again, boy. You know how he is... Maybe _you_ can talk some sense into the damn fool! I certainly have never been able to.”

Padma shot him a disapproving look that the Count did not see. _No shit!_ _Not with that attitude!_ Determined to stay civil, he said nothing.

“It’s worse this time than after Komarr, and you know how bad _that_ was... That boy is just too damn sensitive for his own good, I swear. Your Vorbarra grandparents did you two no favors filling your heads with all that decadent ‘kinder, gentler’ Betan nonsense!”

Padma, again with some difficulty, kept his temper in check, and again, the old man was oblivious. He couldn’t help bristling - Uncle Piotr _always_ set him on edge, always had. “Of course I’ll talk to him. Aral has always been there for me. How could you possibly think otherwise? Where is he now?”

“His bedroom. He starts drinking earlier and earlier.” He glanced up at the sun. “At this hour, he’s usually up at the pavilion, passed out for the day. But he was throwing up blood again this morning, a lot of it - so I called the doctor, who’s with him now despite his objections. That ulcer of his is acting up again.” _No, not sounding good at all._

“Right, then. I’ll want to make some arrangements first so I can be sure of getting his full attention. Whether he’ll listen or not once I have it is debatable, but I’ll get it. I’ll need to talk to Esterhazy first. Is he inside?” The General grunted affirmatively. Padma bowed, was dismissed with a curt wave, and entered the dark coolness of the house through French doors off the patio.

***

With his uniform jacket off and his sleeves rolled up, Padma left the old-style bathroom, complete with claw-foot tub, followed by three armsmen who left down the long upstairs hall carrying several large, empty buckets each. He turned toward Armsman Esterhazy behind him, also carrying empty buckets, telling him, “Be sure all the armsmen and servants know that no matter what it looks or sounds like, _no one_ is to interfere. I promise I won’t hurt Lord Vorkosigan - at least, not seriously. If I can help it... I hope. Thank them all in advance for their cooperation.”

“Very good, milord,” said Esterhazy. “Good luck. You’ll need it, especially if he’s in a particularly feisty mood, and he probably is - he was _not_ _happy_ the doctor was called.”

Padma nodded in acknowledgment, with a grunt and a grim grin. As Esterhazy left, the door of the room across from them opened. A balding, gray-haired man in his mid-sixties with a worried expression stepped out of it. The door slammed loudly behind him. Muffled obscenities emanated from beyond it.

The doctor bowed slightly. “Captain Vorpatril. Very good to see you again, sir.”

He returned the bow. “Dr. Zubal. How is Aral?”

“He can’t keep this up much longer, milord. In addition to the ulcer the and heavy drinking, he’s getting very little sleep - nightmares, he says - and not eating properly. That is, when he remembers to eat at all, and according to the Count his Father, his behavior is becoming increasingly reckless and dangerous.” The man looked at Padma fondly. “I remember the two of you were always quite close as boys. Very heartwarming, I always told the wife, the way young Lord Vorkosigan took you under his wing after your mothers were killed. So very considerate and caring he was, even from such a young age, she always said. One doesn’t expect to see that kind of closeness with a ten year age difference, even in brothers, let alone cousins.” He clasped Padma’s arm. “I beg of you, sir, _do not_ let him have any more alcohol... today at least, especially not that rotgut maple mead he’s gotten his hands on - or the bleeding will start up again.”

“I’ll sit on him all day if I have to... hell, I’ll even drink all the mead myself to keep it away from him!”

Both grimaced at the thought. “I know how much my cousin would appreciate your care and kind words under better circumstances, sir. I thank you, on his behalf and my own.”

Exchanging polite smiles, they bowed again. The doctor thanked him and headed off down the hall. Padma entered the room, which was very dark, its heavy drapes drawn against the midday sun. Stomping over to the large window, he roughly yanked the draperies open, flooding the room with light. A low moan issued from the bed behind him. Aral was lying on top of the bedclothes, dressed only in badly rumpled, very loose camo fatigue pants. He hadn’t shaved in a few days from the look of it - his face dark with heavy stubble. His hair, much grayer now than when he last saw him six months ago and a bit longer than regulation length, was a badly tousled mess. His right arm was flung over his eyes, shielding them from the light. The left - drink in hand - dangled haphazardly over the side of the bed.

“Who the hell opened the damn drapes?” he groaned, rough-voiced, as if he weren’t used to talking much. “I gave orders to keep ‘em shut!”

“So what are you going to do about it then, Coz?” At the sound of Padma’s voice, Aral sat unsteadily upright, blinking hard, trying to focus on his visitor against the bright background of the window. Seeing Padma, he unleashed a spectacular grin, but nearly collapsed when he stood to greet him, spilling his drink. Padma caught him; they shared a long, hard, wet-eyed embrace.

Aral pulled back, shaky but still grinning, holding him at arm’s length to get a better look. Nearly supporting his full weight, Padma steered him back to the bed, where they plopped down heavily. _He’s much too pale,_ he thought, _far too thin, and I’ve never seen such dark circles under his eyes. Not looking at all well... Damn, Aral, not again..._

“My Little Padma!” He was beaming ear to ear. “When did you get in? I’m so glad to see you!”

“Wish I could say the same, Coz. You look like hell!” Aral rubbed his face slowly, looking sheepish. “Ah, me... No great loss. I was never much to look at, anyway. It’s not nearly half as bad as it looks.”

“I wouldn’t know about that... it looks pretty bad from here! Lost some weight, I see. It’s not a good look on you. I’m liking the hair, though.” He tousled the hair in question playfully as Aral ducked his head trying to avoid it. He had never liked having his always unruly hair mussed further, but that inevitably seemed to be the reaction of family and friends when they saw it. In his opinion, Aral’s hair, with its bit of Vorrutyer curl, always looked improbably boyish when viewed in the context of his otherwise impeccable military demeanor and appearance - just _begging_ for a good tousling. “I just passed Doctor Zubal in the hall. He’s quite concerned. As is your father.”

Aral grunted derisively. “My father, right! All he’s concerned about is his reputation, now that his heir has proven to be such a monumental public failure. Nothing new in that.”

“That was my first thought, too. As you say, nothing new. But I think it may be a bit different this time. In his own peculiar way, he seems actually afraid for you. God, I’ve never seen you like this, Aral! This is a new low, even for you. It scares _me_ , too!” _Scared? Hell, it’s heartbreaking seeing him like this_!

“And what’s this ‘failure’ nonsense? All Barrayar knows how extremely vocal and very public you were in opposition to the Escobar invasion plan from the beginning. Now, I’m not the strategic genius you are, but if the Hero of Komarr told _me_ my invasion plan was harebrained, pointless, and bound to fail, I’d be inclined to believe he knew a thing or two about it and take the advice. But did the War Council listen? No!!! UN. BE. LIEVABLE!” He paused, as a thought took shape. “What I can’t understand is how Ezar let them talk him into it in the first place. He’s _always_ been much sharper than that!” Aral shot him a look he would have sworn was incipient panic. “I just got in this morning, and all I’ve been hearing is that Admiral Vorkosigan’s the man of the hour - the hero who brought the fleet safely home - at least what was left of it that the damn fool Serg didn’t manage to destroy!” The thought of Serg left a nasty taste in his mouth.

Aral shook his shaggy head. “Dammit, Padma! Not you, too! And it’s _former_ Admiral Vorkosigan now. I am bloody _sick_ of all the ‘hero’ talk.” His voice grew quieter - a whisper, an ominous sign. “A _real_ hero would have been able to manage a retreat before the invasion began, not after!” The whisper was harsh now, disdainful. “D’you know, they actually want to give me a medal?” He practically spat, “Told Ezar to shove it! I need another bloody medal like a bloody hole in the head! I’ve got more than enough of the damn baubles already!”

Swaying, he rose, glaring down at Padma. He took a few unsteady steps to the night stand, took a flask from a small drawer, and poured himself a drink. He downed it in one gulp and poured another. Padma quickly grabbed the glass from his shaking hand before he could swallow, sloshing the liquid in it on them both as it fell and rolled across the floor. Tightlipped and grim, Aral spun toward him, the motion causing him to stumble badly. Padma caught him again, holding him with a mournful expression.

“I know that look.... Don’t _you_ start on me, too!” He struggled to pull away from Padma’s grasp. “I don’t need your help! I don’t want _anybody’s_ help! Why can’t everyone just leave me the hell alone?”

“We might, if we didn’t care. Remember the _last_ time you pulled one of these wildly inappropriate guilt trips? And the time before that? Hmm? You seem to think if you make yourself repulsive enough, you’ll drive away anyone who wants to help. It never worked with me before, if you recall, and it’s _not_ going to work now, either.” He gave Aral what he hoped was a firm, determined look. “You’re stuck with me, Coz. Xav Vorbarra’s Grandsons, Forever!”

He released Aral, who surprised him with a strong but wild swing in the general direction of his jaw - easily sidestepped. His forward momentum and unsteadiness resulted in a heavy collapse on the carpeted floor. Padma gave him a sour look. “Really? That’s the best you can do? I’m disappointed. It’s going to take a hell of a lot more than that if you’re seriously trying to drive me away.” _God, this is so hard!_ Fighting tears, he sat down on the floor beside him, and wrapped an arm firmly around his bare shoulders. Aral leaned heavily against him, trembling, looking near tears himself.

“You can’t keep doing this to yourself.”

“Sure I can. Watch me!”

“Sorry to disappoint you, but that is simply _not_ going to happen. Not on my watch. Got that? This is Your Little Padma speaking, and _nobody_ takes my Aral away from me. Nobody! Not even you... _especially_ not you...”

Aral huddled in Padma’s arms, rocking in silent, abject misery. Padma rocked in unison. “How many times did _you_ hold _me_ like this when we were kids? God, how I loved you for it! When I was really young, I’d get a little confused sometimes and think you were my brother, or even my father. Hah!” He chuckled softly and kept rocking. “Well, I said I was confused, didn’t I?”

“I remember how it used to drive your Da _wild_ whenever he’d find you comforting me like this after some childish upset, or tending to my assorted cuts and bruises when I’d hurt myself. I was such a klutz back then it happened pretty often. Sometimes... I’d even hurt myself deliberately - nothing serious, mind - just to get your attention.” Aral reacted to that with wide-eyed surprise. Padma shrugged it off, hugging him tighter. “That’s not a criticism, by the way. You were _never, ever_ stingy with your attention or affection.” _Unlike some others we could name._ “It’s just that the more you gave, the more I wanted.”

He paused, marshaling his thoughts. This subject always put him in a truly foul, pissy mood. He took a deep breath... blew it out. “The General would bellow at you, his voice dripping with disgust; red-faced, neck veins popping, nostrils flaring, fire in his eyes - I used to think of that look as his Death Glare. He’d say that taking care of the kiddies and playing nursemaid was women’s work... that we were both big babies - soft, weak, useless... that you were so much worse because you were old enough to know better. He’d go on to blame Grandda and Gran for their damned, degenerate Betan influence! They got blamed for a lot in those days, didn’t they?” Aral was still rocking, a tightly coiled bundle of suppressed energy. This drunk, he might become even more depressed or just the opposite - fiercely combative. He knew he was taking a big chance, either way. Holding his anger in check, he continued dispassionately. “There were times I’d be jealous of you for still having a father, but mostly, I figured if that’s what fathers were like, I was insanely glad I _didn’t_ have one.”

He found it harder and harder to stay calm as the memories flooded back. “Usually, though, when I was a little older, I _hated_ your father.” Pausing, he felt waves of anger breaking over him. “I hated the way I’d tense up whenever he was around. It took me a while to realize I was picking that tension up from you, subconsciously. You _always_ made excuses for him, telling me he was just tired and cranky, or he’d had a bad day with the troops, or he didn’t _really_ mean it whenever he’d said something hurtful - and when didn’t he? It seemed to me he never missed a chance to demean or humiliate you, and for the most absurd, ridiculously petty things, because he really didn’t have anything legitimate to criticize you _for_ , did he? You were always an excellent student, model cadet, dutiful son. I swear, if you had walked on water, he would’ve found _something_ to criticize about it... followed by a long, loud lecture on how the great General Count Vorkosigan would have done it! I hated that!” Bile churned inside, simmering... “I never could understand why you didn’t hate him, too... why you let him talk to you like that... treat you that way.”

“He’s my _father_ , Padma... I didn’t - _don’t_ \- have a choice.”

Padma marveled at how that one word - _father_ \- came out so highly charged with raw emotion - love, hate, fear, respect, anger, yearning... “Then why the hell has he always treated you the way he does? As if it were _your_ fault you lived and your mother and Selig didn’t!” Aral’s face wore a sick, stricken expression, but Padma plowed on. “Even if he didn’t come right out and say it in so many words - _that you should have died instead_ , he might as well have! How could he do that... to his own son?”

Hot tears streamed down his face, choking back a sob. Aral held _him_ now, in a way that was so achingly familiar. “ _That_... that was the absolute worst, Aral. The _worst_... Unforgivable! It still makes me sick to my stomach just thinking about it! I _really, really,_ hated him for that... for what it did to you.”

Softly, arm around him, Aral said, “But... that _was_ my fault. I should’ve done more... tried harder... should’ve picked up the carving knife instead, and... and...”

Padma prided himself on being an even-tempered, easy-going man, but on _this_ topic... Anger finally boiling over, he got to his knees and grabbed Aral, shaking him roughly. “And _what? What_ , Aral?” He made no effort to control his temper or keep his voice down. “Use that brilliant brain of yours for just one second here! Your father’s precious ‘perfect’ son wasn’t able to save your mother, or even himself, so how the hell were _you_ supposed to have done it?”

Eyes downcast, Aral turned away. Hands on both sides of his cousin’s head, he turned his face toward him, not gently. _“No! Look at me, Aral!_ You _know_ I’m right! You were a just child, for God’s sake! Even if you _had_ grabbed the damned carving knife, it _would not_ have changed the fact that you were a scrawny, very undersized eleven year facing a death squad of three fully grown, heavily armed imperial goons.” He shook, more angry than he could ever remember being, having bottled it up all these years. “So tell me, _how_ would that have played out any differently? Huh? _How_ , Aral? Aside from getting you killed for sure instead of merely _almost_ _killed_ and left for dead, slowly bleeding to death? It was pure blind luck that your man must have decided you were too small to even bother using a weapon on! So _how_ \- how in the name of all that’s holy, can you _possibly_ feel guilty about anything that happened that night?”

Aral cringed, with that haunted, tormented look in his eyes the subject of the Massacre always evoked, a look that Padma was convinced meant he was probably reliving every last bloody second of it. Shuddering, he sighed, “At least that would have been the honorable thing to do... dying like Siggy did... a true Vor warrior.”

Literally in Aral’s face, he spat out, “Y’ know, at times, you can be so infuriatingly old school! Death before dishonor, is that what you’re saying? Like the noble Selig Xav Vorkosigan, Boy Warrior?” His normally pleasant features distorted with white-hot anger as he raged on. “Who _told_ you that? Your father?”

Aral’s reply was a deeply confused look. Padma found himself wishing he’d do _something_ \- swear, yell at him, punch him, _anything_ \- because he so did not want to tell him what he knew he now had to. _Someone_ had to already. _Should have done_ long ago. In his anger at what the monumental lie had done to this good man all his life, he had backed himself into this corner - no turning back now. He sat down beside him again. Took a long, slow, deep breath... bracing himself.

_This is going to hurt - both of us_. “I know the two of you were found in different rooms, so you didn’t actually see him get killed. And I know it sounds really perverse, but it might have been better for you in the long run if you had.” Aral sat motionless, his attention rapt, his expression questioning. “When I was about 15 or so, I overheard Grandda and Ezar talking about it. Siggy _didn’t_ die covered in glory, Aral. He was just a terrified kid. Like you. Older, but probably just as scared! He’d been shot in the back, in his bedroom... he didn’t have a chance to do _anything!_ At least _you_ went for a weapon!” Softly, “Even if it _was_ the so-called ‘wrong’ knife... You _tried!”_

Aral stared at him unblinking, unbreathing - stunned and profoundly shaken.

“I never told you what I’d heard them say because I didn’t want to tarnish that ‘hero’ image you’ve always had. I’m so sorry, Coz... I know how much you loved him.” What he was going to say was harsh, but he had to say it, more for himself, he knew, than for Aral. “Knowing the General your Father, I can’t imagine him telling you Siggy died a hero for any other reason _except_ to make you feel guilty - to punish you.”

“Selig was my idol, Padma, my hero. I would have _gladly_ died in his place!” His voice was ragged, the anguish and pain nearly palpable.

“Yeah, I know, Coz. I know. From everything you’ve ever told me, it sounds like he was the kind of brother to you that you’ve always been to me. Who’s to say he wouldn’t have done something heroic if he’d been able to?” His voice and mood shifted from warm and soothing to grim. “Not that it likely would have turned out any differently. Not like in some fairy tale, where the pure-hearted young heroes always prevail. Neither of you boys had the proverbial snowflake’s chance in hell... It was the slaughter of innocents, pure and simple, no honor in any of it. I think your father’s been punishing you all these years, laying that ‘wrong knife’ guilt on you because he still can’t forgive you for surviving when his ‘perfect’ son didn’t.

The devastated, agonized look on Aral’s face was heartbreaking confirmation.

“Can’t you see how that is just _so_ _wrong_ , on so many levels? On his part for blaming you, and yours for believing you deserved it? It’s been more than thirty years and you’re still beating yourself up over it. You did nothing wrong! Believe it, Aral. _Nothing_! Except survive...”

Padma held Aral close, both arms around him, wishing he could absorb some of his pain; ease it, if only a little. Although he’d lost both of his parents, he had been too young to remember any of it - or them - unlike Aral, who’d seen his mother killed in front of him and lived through the horrors of the civil war. Padma knew he had lucked out being raised by his grandparents, as if he were a little prince himself, while poor Aral was stuck alone with Piotr. The thought of that always made him want to punch very many large holes in the nearest wall. The General took scalps during the war, for God’s sake, and murdered babies, whose only crime was having a Cetagandan father... _He killed babies! And bragged about it! Poor Aral, indeed!_

“I’ve always been the leftovers, never able to replace Siggy in my father’s eyes. You were too young to remember him, Padma. He really _was_ perfect - tall, handsome, athletic, smart, charming. _Everyone_ thought so, including me. An heir worthy of the greatest Barrayaran hero.”

“And what? You’re _not?_ ” With a roguish grin, he quipped, “Aside from the tall and handsome part, of course. You could probably stand to brush up on your charm a bit, too.” He noted the faintest beginning of a smile curling the corners of Aral’s mouth.

“Seriously, you’re everything he was, and more. As for the greatest hero bit, well, you’re no slouch in that department, yourself, Coz! The great General Count Vorkosigan may have driven the Cetas off Barrayar - but _you_ \- Admiral Lord Vorkosigan, made sure they can _never_ come back! _And_ punished the Komarrans for their greedy complicity. Yeah, I know the way it turned out wasn’t your intent, but it happened all the same, and the whole planet - aside from yourself - is damn glad it did! However else people might feel about your politics, you’re still the Hero of Komarr, and _nobody_ can EVER take that away from you! Hah! I’ll bet that’s _another_ thing Old Piotr can’t forgive you for - stealing his thunder!"  

Aral glared at him - eyes narrowing, nostrils flaring a bit, temper rising. _Good_ , Padma thought, as he rose from the floor to sit on the edge of the bed. At least he’s not thinking about Selig or Piotr any more. _Gotta keep that train of thought moving..._

__“Intellectually, I understand your plan for Komarr, all nice and neatly pragmatic, but emotionally, I’m afraid I’m with the rest of Barrayar on this one. Not that those 200 dead Komarrans can _ever_ begin to compensate for our five million dead, but on a gut level, it’s so deeply, emotionally satisfying, somehow...”

Looking disgusted, Aral growled, “I don’t understand how you can actually feel that way, having been raised by a Betan!" 

“Don’t kid yourself! For all her Betan ways, at times, Gran could be more hard-core Barrayaran than even your father, trust me!"   

Wobbling and unsteady, Aral got to his feet and began pacing alongside the length of the bed. “I spent nearly a year setting up the Komarr invasion. It was a textbook plan, designed for full integration, not military occupation or revenge. Cost-efficient for us, face-saving for them. I let it be known that we’d be dropping their twenty-five percent cut of everything down to fifteen percent - which eliminated their potential allies, who were being as strangled by their tariffs as we were. If I’d had a free hand and a little more time, I really believe we could have pulled it off without a shot being fired! A perfect war, it should have been... minimal loss of life on both sides... all that hard work, planning and future goodwill shot down, because of the sheer, unmitigated stupidity...” he choked on the word, spitting it out as if it were the foulest obscenity imaginable - taking a few seconds to visibly compose himself, “of _whoever_ ordered the massacre!”

“What happened to me afterward was my own damn fault! I was so blindly full of wounded Vorish pride plus frustration and anger at the political officer, who in all likelihood was the fall-guy for, oh - take your pick - Grishnov, Serg, the War Ministry...” His pacing picked up speed as his voice lost a bit of volume. “I can easily live with my reputation as The Butcher - that doesn’t bother me nearly as much as the price we’ll have to pay, _and we will have to pay it_ \- when Komarran fury at my supposed ‘betrayal’ rears its ugly head. Sooner rather than later, I think. It _will_ be bloody, on both sides, mark my words! And the greater tragedy is that it could have been so easily avoided.”

Padma regarded Aral thoughtfully. _OK, full history professor / lecture hall mode. Good. Passionate political discourse. Better! Declaiming revolution is probably up next. Very good!_ Keeping Aral talking was also keeping him from drinking, and he planned on keeping him talking as long as possible. God knew, the man could talk a blue streak when riled up. _I love that expression,_ he thought. _Not exactly sure what it means - probably an Old Earth saying, but I love it._

“I’m sure you’re right. You _are_ the military genius here. I’m equally sure that if it comes to that, you’re the man they’ll turn to to bail us out of the mess.”

“Oh, no! Not me! Not anymore. I resigned my commission, remember? I’m retired.” He was breathing hard, eyes glinting - silver ice - his tone agonized. “I’ve always tried to walk the path of honor, but I simply _cannot_ serve the imperium any longer! I’ve been used up in this, doing all that was asked of me. My honor is shattered, destroyed... along with my future, all hope. They’re just going to have to muddle through without me. I’m done with it all. No more!”

_Hmm, now this is an alarming new tack_ , Padma thought. “Exactly what _did_ happen to you out there? This place is knee-deep in ImpSec! I’ve never seen anything like it other than for the emperor himself. Why are you suddenly so important enough to need all this security? Seeing as how you’re resigned and retired and all.” Thinking out loud, he added, “Is this one of those ‘if I tell you, I’ll have to kill you’ deals?”

Aral’s mood had changed abruptly from righteous indignation to fearful, almost panicky. From experience, he knew the man had an incredible ability to carry on exceptionally coherent and highly intelligent conversations even when extremely drunk, right up to the point of passing out, but whenever he was that drunk, he was also easily upset, highly volatile, and usually in a fragile emotional state. His voice had dropped to a near whisper, Padma noted with alarm. _Red alert! Fire in the hole!_

Jaw muscles clenching, eyes cold, voice colder and barely audible, with more than a hint of menace, Aral stopped his pacing and stood almost quivering in front of him. “Drop it, Padma. Drop this whole line of questioning about ImpSec and the war.”

Uncharacteristically oblivious to the warning signs implicit in the extreme ImpSec presence and Aral’s sudden mood shift, Padma doggedly pursued the subject. “Who or what are they protecting you _from_? I always said that mouth of yours was going to get you into some seriously deep shit someday! Who did you piss off _this_ time? Why didn’t they just ship you back to Kyril Island, like they did after Komarr?” He stood up, face to face with Aral. “You’re not under some kind of house arrest are you?”

Aral exploded in a lightning fast blur of movement, fueled by adrenaline and sheer muscle memory. Padma found himself looking up, pinned to the floor.

_Oh, shit! I may have seriously miscalculated here_! It was hard enough taking Aral down when he was in top shape, and he was unconscionably far from that now. He’d forgotten how powerful and dangerous he was. Except for very recently, the man had obviously kept himself in good physical condition and fighting trim.

Voice now the faintest whisper, he snarled, “Leave me! Just... leave. Get out of here! Go home to Alys, to your nightmare-free life. I don’t want your pity or your sympathy! I don’t deserve it... Forget about me. _Leave me alone!"_

Distraught, he let his guard down for a few seconds. Padma took advantage of it and broke his hold very briefly and got to his feet before Aral regained control. Their violent thrashing knocked a desk chair over with a bang and set the medicine bottles on the night stand rattling and clanking, while the tumbler on the floor rolled noisily under the bed. He’d made a major tactical error underestimating Aral because of his inebriated condition and was now paying the price, having to work harder than he had in a long, long time. Loud thumping and crashing noises as they slammed into the furniture and walls were joined by their mutual grunts and his own badly-out-of-shape wheezing, punctuated by the sounds of flesh solidly connecting with flesh.

Aral delivered a powerful roundhouse kick to the small of his back that sent Padma flying across the room, ending up sprawled face-down on the bed, momentarily breathless. It was a sharp, painful reminder that his cousin’s feet could be as deadly as his hands. _This is unbelievable! He’s so drunk he can hardly stand! There’s no way he should he physically be able to do what he’s doing!_ Astonishing him with his brute strength, Aral - smaller and lighter - hauled him off the bed snared in a head lock, and dragged him out the door into the hall, where Padma broke the hold and flipped him flat on his back. Aral was up quickly, catlike - _he was always freakishly good at that._ Having regained his footing, they were soon grappling noisily, each of them taking a pounding from the other. Padma had his hands full having to work at fighting Aral off while trying not to hurt him. He wasn’t entirely sure Aral wasn’t trying to hurt _him!_

He realized with a start that Aral wasn’t angry; he was frantic rather than furious - terrified - of what, he couldn’t imagine. He tickled him just above the hip bone beneath the rib cage - one of those sweet spots that always worked before. Driven by some godawful, fierce inner demons, Aral didn’t even notice what otherwise should have caused him to lose his focus and control and give _him_ the upper hand.

Rather than trying to take him down - that was proving to be a painful proposition - Padma struggled instead to slowly inch them both toward the open door to the bathroom. Slow going, but eventually they sprawled through in a tangle of arms and legs onto the cold tile floor. Pure focused energy, Aral continued to land a succession of tooth-rattling kicks and numbing punches. With an ironic grunt, he reminded himself rather belatedly that this was a man who could kill with his bare hands!

Shirtless and sweaty in addition to being hyper alert and wary, Aral was proving to be exceptionally hard to get a grip on. He finally manhandled him up off the floor to the side of the tub he had earlier filled almost completely with ice. The intensity of Aral’s concentration was such that he didn’t seem to notice where he was. _Good, the shock should do the trick quite nicely!_ It took all his strength to wrangle him into position so he didn’t end up in the tub with him. Water and ice cubes sprayed all over the room as Aral finally hit the water, thrashing and gasping, followed by a short but intense full-body spasm from contact with the tub’s frigid contents.

Aral recovered in an instant, again with more strength than Padma thought possible, trying to climb out. He forced Aral under and held him down, as he fought fiercely to pull him in, very nearly succeeding. When he let him up the first time, he was sputtering, swearing and still flailing awfully energetically for someone half drowned, Padma thought. He dunked him again, still resisting powerfully, sloshing even more water and ice over the sides. He let him up just long enough to catch a quick breath, then dunked him yet again, repeating the maneuver several more times, at which point he was getting seriously worried.

“Goddammit, Aral, don’t do this to me!” he yelled. “Calm down already! Don’t make me hurt you!” He felt the fight e _ver so slowly_ beginning to go out of Aral even as he still put up an impressive struggle. Finally and mercifully exhausted, he stopped thrashing and went limp, like air being let out of a balloon. _Thank God!_

Padma hauled him up fast, coughing and spluttering, and heaved him out of the tub along with a good deal of water. Propping Aral up against himself, he grabbed a large towel he’d placed at the ready and wrapped it around his bare shoulders, holding him close. His too large fatigue pants, now soaked and heavy, hung precariously low on his hips. _God, he’s lost so much weight!_ Shivering violently, Aral blinked back tears - silent, eyes downcast, breathing heavily.

He gently raised Aral’s face and looked him in the eye. Aral met his gaze. “All right, Coz? Got it all out now?” He nodded - shaky, sniffling, and dripping copiously, but no longer tearful, all the fight seemingly evaporated. Padma gave him a quick once over with the towel, took hold of his arm, and led him out of the bathroom across the hall back to the bedroom. “Let’s get you out of those wet things and into something dry.”

In the bedroom, towel around his neck, Aral stood rooted to the spot and fumbled slowly with the wet web belt on his pants as Padma went into the closet, where he picked up a pair of boxer briefs from a pile on a shelf. “Hmm... I guess that answers _that_ question,” and flung them out into the room in Aral’s vicinity. His wardrobe seemed to consist of nothing but uniforms. _If he really is retired, he’s going to need some civilian clothes - he’s got zilch!_ The best he could come up with was a pair of faded black fatigue pants and a wildly patterned, brightly colored shirt in an Old Earth-style tropical print. Leaving the closet, he held the shirt by the fingertips, as if it were toxic, and laughing, dangled it in front of Aral, who was still standing motionless. “Holy shit! You _still have_ this sartorial monstrosity?”

Sodden pants in a puddle at his feet and still shivering, Aral snatched the shirt from Padma and attempted to put it on. He was still very wet - the shirt clung to him in spots - awkward, twisted. A faint, bittersweet smile crossed his face, eyes crinkling ever so slightly as he addressed him in what Padma thought of as his ‘Admiral On The Bridge‘ voice - which he knew would have scared just about anyone else shitless. His own reaction was a half-smothered, irreverent guffaw.

“I’ll thank you to show a little respect, please, Captain Vorpatril! This shirt means more to me than all my bloody medals.”

Padma regarded him and his shirt. _Who would have figured Aral Vorkosigan for a sentimental fool?_ He took up the towel. “Here, let me get your back,” Reaching under the shirt, he thoroughly dried the broad, solidly-muscled back, then the chest, before going to work on his hair, which was providing most of the dripping. When finished, he rested his hand in the middle of Aral’s back for a few moments, deeply moved. _God, I love this man! Just when I think I know everything about him, he throws me a curve ball like this. Who’s the sentimental fool now, eh, Vorpatril?_

Not wanting things to get maudlin now that Aral had finally calmed down, he ceremoniously draped the towel over his cousin’s head and bowed low, with a broad, theatrical flourish. Looking up with a little smirk, he saw Aral was smiling, just a little. _Starting to relax a bit... Excellent! Keep it up, Vorpatril..._

Aral slid the towel off his head and began buttoning up. “Remember the day the four of you gave me this shirt? The horrified faces when I actually wore it? In public? Except yours, of course.”

“Hah! Mostly, I remember the huge bundle I won betting you actually _would_ wear the silly thing. They didn’t know you like I did.” He snickered, “I almost felt guilty taking their money! ‘Almost’ being the operative word here.”

“You’re the only one left, y’know.” The sigh was long and deep. “I appreciate what you’re trying to do, Padma. Really, I do,” adding with a short snort, “the ice water bath, though - not so much. I’m surprised you remembered. It’s been a while.”

“One _does_ tend to remember what works so spectacularly - like a charm! Sobered you right up like it always did, although you never fought back quite so, ah... strenuously before, especially considering how falling down drunk you were!” His grin was huge, greatly relieved. “I was praying I wouldn’t have to actually drown you.”

“Well, I was just trying to get my point across.” His familiar, warm baritone rumble was back, still carrying a hint of caution, but no longer any anger or panic. Aral gripped his shoulders firmly and looked him in the eye, riveting his attention.

“Padma, listen to me. I have _never_ been more serious. Our relationship has been the one constant in my life since the night of the Massacre. _Just let the Escobar thing go.”_ His gray gaze was as steady and intense as he’d ever seen it. “If you push it, your life _will_ be in danger, and I won’t be able to save you. This goes all the way to the top. That’s all I can say about it.” His voice was impassioned, his eyes burning. “I can’t risk losing you, too - I couldn’t bear it, not after everything else! I’d tell you if I could, you know that. I’m begging you - if you love me, please let it go. Please!”

He sighed, nodding - acknowledging defeat. “So... what you’re saying is that ImpSec is out there to make sure you don’t tell anyone whatever the hell it is you’re not telling anyone about Escobar? _Oh-kay_...” Seized by a momentary panic, Padma looked frantically around the room for telltale signs. “Um, is this room bugged, by the way?”

Aral relaxed his grip. “Probably not, but I wouldn’t put it past Negri.”

“Negri knows?”

“Seriously? There’s _nothing_ Negri does not know.”

“Who else? Can you at least tell me that? Without compromising anything?”

“Myself. Ezar, of course. One of Negri’s shipboard agents. And a certain Betan captain who inadvertently got caught up in it. May I have your word you won’t pursue it any further?”

He began to glom on to the enormity of Aral’s secret as it all started to click. _Only five people. Three of them being Ezar, Negri and an ImpSec agent._ All the way to the top, hell! _Whatever_ Aral was involved in, it couldn’t _possibly_ get any bigger than that. _If ever a man had a reason to drink to forget... Shit! No wonder the poor sod’s drowning himself in alcohol. This was probably off the charts!_

“If it’s that important to you - my word as Vorpatril. End of discussion. In return, though, you have to promise to take better care of yourself. You’re the only family I have left, and I’m rather ridiculously fond of my family!”

Aral‘s eyes had lost their earlier haunted, tormented look - his voice and expression were now wistful. “I’d like to oblige, but... it’s complicated.”

“Why am I not surprised? Everything always _is_ , with you! I’ll be keeping a close eye on you, though. I know the ice water trick and I’m not afraid to use it!”

He grinned broadly. “I’d expect nothing less.”

“So, Coz, is this ‘certain Betan captain’ the same one I’ve been hearing no end of rumors about?”

A spark of anger briefly flared. “Am I to be allowed _no_ personal life? No privacy whatsoever? They might as well put me on display in the zoo!” His insatiable curiosity soon got the better of his indignation; he calmed down quickly. “ S-o-o-o... um... what kind of rumors _have_ you been hearing?”

“Well, the really _big_ one is that the ‘certain Betan captain’ is of the female persuasion,” waggling his eyebrows suggestively, “and _she’s_ the one who killed Ges Vorrutyer, bless her little Betan heart. I want to throw myself at her feet! She deserves a medal! Or two, or six...”

“That she does! But _she_ didn’t kill Ges. She was there, though - his pet torture victim of the day. He was about to do her the honor of raping her himself instead of having one of his usual proxies do it.” Nearly gagging in revulsion, “While he watched..."

“So _you_ killed him, then! I’ve been hearing _that_ one quite a bit, too! I knew it!” He couldn’t help but chortle. “Yes!!! Damn, Aral! About time! Good riddance!”

“No, no! It wasn’t me. I _wanted_ to, but it wasn’t me. They beat me to it.”

“Ah... ha. I see,” although he really didn’t. “I thought I recognized your ‘knight in shining armor’ mode in this intriguing little narrative. By the way, who’s the rest of this ‘they’ - as in ‘they beat me to it’”?

Aral balled up the wet towel which had been draped around his neck and threw it, hitting Padma in the head. “Ges’ favorite proxy turned on him. For his own good, I’d rather not say who. He saved Cor - the captain - from being raped, at the very least. Talk about deserving a medal... not that he’ll ever get it, though, poor suffering bastard.”

“You _do_ know, don’t you, that the Betans and just about everyone else are claiming your Betan lady captain did the honors.”

“ _My_ Betan?” His grunt was dark, deeply sardonic. “I _do_ know she’ll be furiously denying it. If she’d had the opportunity, though, I’m quite sure she could and would have done it herself. Our people are just as furiously denying it, too, as a matter of honor. Imagine - the _sheer indignity_ of it! A mere woman, killing one of our admirals!”

“Not that Ges didn’t richly deserve killing...”

“Heh! Our side’s spin on it is that another one of the Betan prisoners - a male, naturally - did it after they broke out of the brig, and they both escaped by stowing away on an outbound shuttle in the ensuing confusion.”

Padma’s eyes slitted skeptically. “You’re sure about that? ‘Cause I’m seeing the hallmarks of one of your famous little surgically-precise combat ops...”

“I swear on my honor, it’s the truth. I _was_ the one, though, who fabricated the tale about the escaped prisoners, with the help of Lt. Illyan - my spy. Good man, Illyan. ImpSec - I don’t think you’ve ever met him. And please, please don’t ask me to explain why he was spying on me, or for whom.”

Padma solemnly made the lip-zipping gesture.

“As I said, I _wanted_ to kill Ges, and had gone to his quarters to do it, but when the lieutenant and I broke in on the scene to do the deed, we found him already dead, killed literally a few minutes earlier. We sounded the alarm, started spreading the escaped prisoners rumor, and managed to hide the captain and the real perpetrator in my quarters for two days. Um, this doesn’t leave the room, by the way...”

Padma erupted in raucous laughter. “My God, Aral! This is milk-out-the-nose funny! No offense - it _had_ to be deadly serious at the time - but you’ve got to admit, it sounds _exactly_ like one of those Captain Vortalon adventures you used to read me as kid! Only more so.” Dropping his baritone to a bass, he intoned dramatically, “Captain Vortalon - On Steroids!” Both collapsed into helpless, side-splitting, eye-watering laughter. It felt amazingly good. Aral seemed to be enjoying it as much as he was.

“So,” still wheezing and wiping away a stray tear, “was that when you met the non-Ges-killing female Betan captain? And does she have a name? ‘The non-Ges-killing female Betan captain’ _is_ a bit of a slog!” A lingering snort escaped him.

“Cordelia Naismith,” he said softly, shyly. “She was a jumpship navigator and astrocartographer in the Betan Astronomical Survey. We first met on the planet where we had cached our weapons and supplies for the Escobar invasion.”

He was gobsmacked! While Aral Vorkosigan was very many things, shy was never one of them. Enthralled, he eagerly waited to hear more.

“I’ve heard we’re going to name the planet after Serg, by the way.”

Padma made a gagging gesture and a mock retching sound. Aral grinned wickedly in appreciation.

“She was a commander then. I had been left for dead by Radnov and the mutineers from the _General Vorkraft_ , who hoped to make it look like the Betans had killed me. They also attacked her survey crew, who were able to escape, leaving her behind on her orders. I came to before she did - that’s how she ended up _my_ prisoner. We had to hike over two hundred kilometers to the supply cache to get to our medical and communications equipment, with almost no food, no shelter, no way to make fire, and no way to hold water. We only had my combat knife and her near-depleted stunner to protect ourselves from some pretty nasty wildlife, all seemingly out to get us. Not to mention having to care for one of her crewmen, brain-damaged from a disruptor shot and helpless as a baby. A nearly two meter tall baby, I might add.” His expression was that of someone who could scarcely believe it himself. “It was the most intense five days of my life. I wouldn’t trade it for anything!”

“Why don’t _I_ ever get to have adventures like that?” He looked at Aral with an amazed, amused expression, unable to resist a little more teasing. “I must say, Coz, you sure know how to show a girl a good time! I’m assuming she was completely overwhelmed by your devastating Vorish charm and wit?”

Aral was blushing furiously, that incredible, shy look on his face again. “Well... overwhelmed by _something_ , at any rate... I really can’t imagine _what_ she saw in me...”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa!!! _What?_ Back up! _Really?_ Wait! You’re _serious_? You _are_ serious! That’s fantastic! When do we get to meet this wonder woman?” His glee was short-lived when he saw the devastated expression on Aral’s face. Kidding aside, he laid a sympathetic hand on his shoulder, “Don’t tell me... it’s complicated, right?”

“More than you know! After Escobar, she said she loved me, but she wouldn’t have me - not on Barrayar. In all honesty, I can’t say I blame her. We discussed the possibility of me emigrating to Beta Colony to be with her, but we Barrayarans are pariahs _everywhere_ in the Nexus just now. I can’t join her anywhere without risking arrest as a war criminal.” He sounded wistful, if resigned.

“Yet even if it _were_ safe for me elsewhere, how can I leave? Barrayar’s in my bones! With Serg dead, Ezar ill and very probably dying, and the Crown Prince only four years old, it will be a miracle if we can avoid civil war! She - _Cordelia_ \- says Barrayar eats its children. She’s absolutely right!” He held his shirt front open, exposing his chest. “If you look carefully, you can probably see the nibble marks on my soul! I’m feeling pretty well eaten up these days.”

“Speaking of eating - hold that thought. As fascinating as I’m finding all this, and as cathartic as I’m sure it must be for you - why don’t we have the rest of this conversation over a late lunch in town? We haven’t been home together since... when was it... before the invasion. You were spending all your time holed up with Ezar and Negri.” A sudden realization hit him. “Oh! That was all part of the thing we’re not going to talk about, wasn’t it?”

Aral’s eyes narrowed ominously.

“Right, then. Got it! Well, I’m dying to hear the rest of the tale of you and your dear captain! I’m also famished,” patting his stomach. “All that grappling works up the old appetite, and you look like you haven’t had a decent meal in months. I spotted a new place on the way over here - looked like it features ‘traditional home-style fare’ instead of all that frou-frou, trendy, upscale crap Vorbarr Sultana seems to be infatuated with these days. When I’m hungry, I don’t want something that looks like it belongs in an art gallery, I want something that’ll stick to the ribs - like somebody’s dear old grandmama might have made.”

“Hah! Our Gran never cooked - she had a kitchen staff for that kind of thing!”

Padma snorted and punched him on the shoulder. Aral had the good grace to pretend to wince. _He looks so horribly tired..._ he thought... _worse than tired - ill._ “We don’t _have_ to go if you’re not feeling up to it.”

Eyes warm, if weary, Aral replied, “I haven’t been away from the house much since I got home, except for occasional district business, but... yes. Thank you! I _will_ have lunch with you, if you’ll let me pay. Um, I can’t guarantee I’ll be able to keep much of it down, though.”

“Outstanding! Aside from the ‘not keeping it down’ bit, of course. And as fetching a sight as it may be to some, you just _might_ want to put those pants on first. Wouldn’t want to frighten small children or the horses!”

“Hah!” Picking up the towel he had thrown earlier, he snapped it sharply at Padma’s legs, causing him to yelp.

Padma rubbed his leg where the towel connected, laughing. He danced around to dodge a well-aimed second swipe, and snickered, “Has ‘she’ seen those legs?”

“As a matter of fact, yes, ‘she’ has. But it’s not what you’re thinking!”

“Oh? Yes?”

Taking Padma’s bait, Aral launched into an explanation. “I had inadvertently trod on the local equivalent of an anthill while taking a leak, and the damn things retaliated, infesting my pants. They were biting. Viciously! I had to take my pants off to de-bug. She, ah... found it rather amusing.” Aral gave the raucously howling Padma a withering look. “The debugging, idiot, not my legs! Just so you know, she had more than ample opportunity to inspect ‘em while examining this,” pointing to the long, still vivid scar from the hexaped’s claws on his right leg, “which was starting to fester quite spectacularly at the time.” His expression turned quizzical. “Amazingly, it didn’t seem to put her off...”

“Unflinching at the sight of a septic wound? Good God! It’s a wonder you didn’t fall on your knees immediately and ask the woman to marry you on the spot! Who needs a baba at a time like that! It sounds like she was positively extraordinary!”

“You’re not mocking me, are you? Because she was - _she is_ \- extraordinary.” The ever eloquent Aral Vorkosigan stunned Padma by stammering like a lovestruck schoolboy, “Um... and I did, actually. Ask her to marry me. Once I got my ship and command back. Five days later. I _wanted_ to do it sooner, but with her still technically my prisoner - it _was_ a bit awkward. I couldn’t seem to find the right time. It was terrifying!” He held his right hand out, palm up. “And... like I said, it was complicated. I didn’t want to pressure her. She led me to believe she was favorably inclined and that she’d give me her answer later - not that I expected one right away. In the meantime, she was rescued by her crew. It’s a long story... That was my first proposal...”

Padma, incredulous, grabbed his arms. “ _You? Proposed? More than once?_ Why, Aral Vorkosigan, you romantic fool, you! This just keeps getting better and better! Captain Vortalon’s got _nothing_ on you!” Laughing, he spun him around. “It’s true what they say... it’s _always_ the quiet ones! Now put your britches on already and let’s get that lunch before I pass out from low blood sugar and you’ll have to carry me! You can tell me the rest of it on the way. Hmm, just a thought, but... do you think your Barrayar-shy Captain Naismith might be amenable to some form of communication from me, singing your many praises? I’d be more than willing to give it a go on your behalf...”

Aral, now freshly trousered, snapped at him again with the towel. “I’ve been meaning to write myself. She and I agreed we would - to see what, if anything, we could work out to be together. I’m not at all optimistic so soon after the war, and not at all certain ImpSec would allow a letter of mine get to through to her. Or that their security would allow one of hers to reach me, under the circumstances.” A faint, hopeful gleam appeared in his eyes. “What the hell, maybe you’re on to something. J _ust maybe_ one from you could get through where one of mine most likely couldn’t. It can’t hurt to try.”

“We’ll do it, then. Over lunch. I promise to gush effusively on your behalf, being sure to point out your many manly virtues and rugged charm in excruciating detail!”

Aral snorted. They left the room and started down the hall, with him snapping the towel at Padma’s retreating backside. Their laughter was mixed with occasional yelps from Padma, not entirely in mock pain, as a silent armsman looked on.

On reaching the end of the hall, they turned around and came back, with Padma in possession of the towel, flicking it at Aral, who stayed just out of range before ducking into his bedroom. Padma, waiting in the hall, acknowledged Armsman Esterhazy who was about to enter the ice-strewn bathroom. 

“It certainly looks like your plan worked. I haven’t seen Lord Vorkosigan looking this relaxed since he’s been home.”

“He does _look_ a little better, doesn’t he? Long way to go yet, I’m afraid.” He sighed wearily. “Unfortunately, one day at time is the best I can do for him. The problem now is, how to keep this up until he pulls out of it? Assuming he doesn’t ruin his health first... You said earlier my cousin drinks heavily every third day, right?” Esterhazy nodded. “I’m a married man now with a baby on the way, and I’m only just home on leave at the moment. I don’t yet know for how long. In the meantime, I’m ready and willing to come back here to babysit him whenever I can, whether he likes it or not.” They share a grimace at the thought of that prospect.

Gesturing through the open door, he said, “Er... um, sorry about the mess in the there, by the way. I’ll collect my jacket on the way back.” He shouted through the open bedroom door, “What’s keeping you, Coz?”

“I can’t find my other shoe.”

He shouted again, “Look under the bed. I’m pretty sure it got kicked under there when I was trouncing you.”

_“You?_ Were trouncing _me_? Hah! In your dreams, Vorpatril,” was followed by muffled laughter, then a triumphant, “Found it!”

Aral reappeared in the hallway wearing one sandal, hopping on one foot while trying to put the other on. He managed to get it on, and the two of them left down the hall, arms around each other’s shoulders, engaging in mutual, good-humored ribbing.

Esterhazy watched their noisy exit. Padma snuck a quick glance back and gave him a surreptitious thumbs-up. He returned the gesture with a broad grin, a big sigh of relief, and a silent prayer of thanks. Humming an upbeat tune, he headed into the soggy bathroom to begin the mopping up.


End file.
